


the bone mother

by kangeiko



Category: Deathless - Catherynne M. Valente
Genre: F/M, Gen, Russian Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Look, said Viy, and held out the world for her inspection. Look, milochka, at what I have for you.</i>
</p>
<p>The Tsars and Tsaritsas of Widow Likho's black book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bone mother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dynamicsymmetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/gifts).



> Many thanks to Luna for the beta!

> _Chyerti – that’s us, demons and devils, small and big – are compulsive. We obsess. It’s our nature. […] That’s how you get deathless, volchitsa. Walk the same tale over and over, until you wear a groove in the world._
> 
> _Deathless,_ p. 110.

 

She is not always a crone, and he not always an old man. They never are, these chyerti, their bodies pliable as raw dough beneath their wills. They can be as young or as old as they like, and yet they, too are bound to this earth as we are, and as vulnerable to its pleasures and its hurts.

The earth was born in stages, its end coming first: Viy and his silver body and his silver face, wrapped up tight in a silver cape, holding the world’s Death in his Tsar’s baby-plump fingers; then Yaga, Tsaritsa of the Night, still in swaddling clothes and howling with hunger.

Not so terrifying then, these chyerti, cleaving to each other while the earth shook and wept and forests and the world formed around them. Look, said Viy, and held out the world for her inspection. Look, milochka, at what I have for you.

*

When Viy was small and she smaller, he held her hand in his while he withered the world around her and she watched avidly. It was a morality play for her pleasure only, small and compact in a globe that spanned his hands. All the world could be like this, he told her, her eldest brother, swathed in endless silver night.

Yaga reached out and touched her hands to the glassy globe, watching the snowflakes fall inside. But then what would we do? She asked Viy, looking up at him with her big liquid eyes, as pretty as any girl with a snub nose and long pigtailed hair. And where would we play, Viy?

Viy thought about this. He sat down his broad body on the ground, spreading his silver cloak beneath him and leaving plenty of room for her to cuddle up against him. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her stockinged feet against the rough wool of his trousers.  Well, milochka, he said, one hand quiet and still on her hair, I think we could play as much as we like, any way we like. Once everyone is silver and the whole world is wrapped in night, we could do anything we wanted.

Yaga twirled a pigtail around one pudgy finger. And what do we want?

Her brother kissed the top of her hair. What we want is what is ours, milochka. Nothing more, nothing less. We are not greedy.

Yaga thought that maybe this was a little bit of a lie, but Viy was tall and strong, almost fully grown, and if anyone was allowed to lie, it would be him.

Still wrapped in thought, she let Viy feed her the treats he had brought along – the smoked meats and the honey cakes and the blini still steaming hot – and let the juices and grease run down her face. If she thought it odd that Viy did not eat, she did not say.

*

Her brothers and sisters were born in short order, despite Viy’s efforts, belched forth from the earth and left blinking in the night. There is only so much that a child can do to prevent such things, and Viy, when all was said and done, was still a child at this age, despite his height and his magnificent cloak. Still milk-wet, Yaga would have said, if she had seen Viy when he was born and suckling, or if he had ever eaten or drank or slumbered beside her beneath her skins and blankets. Yaga, who fed at the teats of the nursing heifer outside, could not think of doing so herself without Viy to hold the heifer still.

You could always share my bed, Viy, she said to him innocently one day while he was fetching water. It is cold in the night.

Viy missed a step and almost came crashing down beneath the water-pails, his feet scrabbling on the ground for purchase. What a queer thing to say to me, milochka! He told her, and set the water-pails down. Some water slopped over the edges and soaked across the cobblestones, silvery and wet. I have no need to sleep.

Yaga pulled her kerchief from the folds of her skirt and helped Viy to carry the pails indoors, her feet slipping and sliding beneath the weight of her burden. If she thought it odd that Viy did not sleep, she did not say.

Besides, indoors lay the new babies, tucked in and around each other like warm loaves of bread.

*

The little ones were growing, clutching at her hands as she lifted them into her lap for their feeding. They sucked the milk-soaked bread from her fingers and licked the honey she smeared on their mouths, lips smacking with deep satisfaction. Yaga found herself surrounded on all sides with pink, dimpled flesh, and the sweet cooing of baby language, soft and pleasing as the chirping of birds.

Viy spent more and more of his time indoors, the outside world already a shining silver he did not need to visit. The night pressed in on them, dark and cold, and Yaga went to stoke the fire. From his cradle, Alkonost waved his plump little arms at her and she paused to pinch his cheek, listening to him chirp at her in his bird language.

Alkonost would look pretty in silver, Viy said after a moment, watching her play with the babies.

Yaga looked up at him sharply. But then he would be a baby forever, she told Viy, and that would be boring. She hefted the baby into her arms and let Alkonost grip her pigtails in his chubby little fists. He is not yours, Viy.

Viy shrugged at this as if it did not matter and went outside. After a few moments, Yaga heard the sound of his axe as he started chopping wood.

What an odd thing to do, Yaga thought. Viy did not need the fire.

Alkonost cooed at her and she smiled despite herself, setting him down beside the others. He turned over to grip a handful of Likho's lank hair and immediately fell asleep.

*

Koschei was the last to be born. A strange order of events, Yaga thought, and almost dropped him when Likho smiled from underfoot. Koschei squeaked indignantly and held tight to her, his fingers already losing their baby plumpness. His hair was dark and curly and unruly, and his eyes large and beautiful. What a pretty baby! Yaga said, and held him to her breast.

Yes, Likho said in her sweet baby lisp, the last-but-one of her little ones. Makes you hungry, doesn’t it, sister?

Yaga glared at Likho. Don’t be stupid, Likho, she scolded. That’s a silly thing to say. Besides – and here she pinched Likho’s plump cheek – you have a lot more fat still on you. If I was going to eat anyone…

If you were going to eat anyone it would be yourself, Likho said placidly, and laughed as Yaga swiped at her with the kitchen broom, awkwardly moving the silver birch and baby from arm to arm as she tried to land a good blow to Likho’s rump. Not quick enough, Yaga! Likho laughed, and the door opened just at the right moment to let her slip out, still unsteady on her toddler legs.

Where is Likho going? Viy asked, mildly amused. His eyes were fixed on Koschei, still cuddled up on Yaga’s breast. It’s snowing outside, and not fit for little chyerti to wander.

Koschei struggled in Yaga’s arms, either trying to reach Viy or to turn away from him, she could not tell. Either way, he dug his thin little fingers into her flesh until she gritted her teeth and shifted him to her other side. I thought you wanted them brought to your country, Viy, she said, and was surprised at the rage in her voice. Wouldn’t wandering about in the snow make that easier?

Viy looked at her then stepped back from what he saw on her face. I will cut some more wood, he said, and stepped back outside the little house.

Left indoors to her own devices, Yaga shifted Koschei in her grip again and went to check on the soup. Beside the fire, the other little Tsars and Tsarinas played at knucklebones, the pieces falling this way and that. Watch you don’t burn your fingers, Yaga said, and stirred the soup with the ladle, lifting it up to take a little sip. The fire is very hot tonight.

On her hip, Koschei screamed his defiance and reached for the flames.

*

The little Tsars and Tsaritsas left them as soon as they were able to walk, or fly, or swim away. First was Alkonost, but the others followed swiftly: one by one, they would be gone when Yaga woke up, the bed that little bit colder, until only Koschei was left tied to her apron strings.

He will leave soon, Viy said, looking down at where Koschei was playing knucklebones by himself. He will want to visit his brothers and sisters.

We’re his brother and sister, Yaga told him sharply, and went back to chopping up the meat for that day’s food. Thin strips of pork caught on the edge of the cleaver, ground into the grooves of the wood with each blow. Viy sat by the fire, his boots off and his beautiful beard curling, and drank his silvery beer. We’re his brother and sister, Viy, Yaga said again, and the next blow was especially strong.

Viy looked over at her. Of course, he said.

When Yaga looked up from her chopping, Koschei was sitting on Viy’s knee, his dark curling hair crushed against the fabric of Viy’s silvery shirt. His thumb was in his mouth and his cheeks were flushed and ruddy. Viy’s hands were in Koschei’s hair, slowly stroking through the thick curls.

The cleaver clattered on to the chopping board as Yaga took one two three quick steps forward. Give him to me, Viy, she demanded.

Viy looked up at her, his eyes amused. You’re covered in blood, Yaga, he said. It’ll upset him.

She reached over and prised Koschei from his grip, her hands digging into his babyish flesh. Koschei woke abruptly and huffed in a breath to scream, then – did not. Instead, he buried his face against Yaga’s breasts, breathing deeply as he fell back into dreams. It does not upset him, Yaga said, quiet and triumphant.

No, Viy said, looking at her in her chopping apron, smeared with blood, the baby in her arms. No, I see it does not.

*

Years passed thus, Viy in front of the fire he did not need, Yaga in the kitchen chopping the meat, her bloody apron wrapped around her and Koschei at her feet playing knucklebones. The world outside changed as their brothers and sisters found their ways within it, building their palaces and villas and dachas with the rivers winding their way through forest clearings and grassy plateaus.

They will visit us soon, Yaga, Viy said each night, watching her eat her supper and try to feed Koschei his. I am sure they are just busy.

Yaga had no time to spare for such nonsense. Koschei was fussing, turning his mouth away from the apple slices she tried to coax him into accepting and nipping at her fingers instead. He had not grown at all but stayed a small and compact form against her hip, his features narrowing and his hair growing ever more thick and luxurious. Frustrated, she let him gnaw on her fingers instead, watching him strip the flesh from her bones with his sharp little baby teeth until the blood ran down to their wrists.

What a little monster he is, Viy said after a moment.

Yes, Yaga said.

The next night, her fingers still sore, she brought out strips of raw meat for Koschei to gnaw on and held him in her lap while he ate ravenously.

In the morning, Koschei started to grow.

*

The forest around them was gradually turning green. Leaf by leaf, footstep by footstep, the silvery sheen on every glistening icicled plant was being supplanted by fresh green offshoots, hot and full of sap. She found Koschei outside one morning, gnawing on chicken bones and fondling a young oak tree.

You’re taller, she said.

Koschei turned to look at her. There were new hollows beneath his cheekbones but his lips were still full and red. When he smiled, she could see the sharp points of his teeth. Yes, he said. I need to be older, for when we leave.

We’re not going anywhere, Kostya, she said. We’ll stay right here: you, me, and Viy.

Koschei walked back to her and took her hands in his. He brought them up to his mouth and licked the blood and grime from them. No, dorogaya, he said. We won’t.

*

There was trouble brewing between Viy and Koschei. Viy was still the same as he had always been, tall and handsome in his grey cloak and his beautiful beard, and Koschei now matched him height for height and beauty for beauty. They are so perfect, her brothers, Yaga thought, and sucked her fingers clean as she watched them in front of the fire. So perfectly matched in every respect. How odd that there should be an entire brood of Tsars and Tsaritsas between them, keeping them apart, as if they were not two sides of the same coin.

Viy returned home one day with a gift for her: a pestle and mortar, large enough to grind whatever she may wish. Even, Viy said, smirking, if it struggled a little.

Koschei only looked at the pestle and mortar outside and went back to playing knucklebones in front of the fire. He was too old for it now, his long curling hair touching his shoulders and his legs tucked beneath him; a grown man kneeling like a child in front of the soup-pot, his hands worrying at a game he had outgrown long ago.

Viy opened the door for her so she could see the restless stirring of the mortar and pestle and hear the _grind grind grind_ drifting in. Come on, Yaga, he said, and wrapped his arms around her. He slipped his fingers inside her tunic and they were thin and cold on the flesh beneath her breasts. Come out and play.

She looked back to where Koschei sat, his face resolutely turned away. All right, she said. All right, Viy. But just for a little while.

At the hearth, Koschei stirred. You needn’t cut your pleasure short on my account, he said, and stood. There was something hard and angry in his countenance as he turned his face away; the expression of a childish love thwarted. He turned thrice on the spot, his finger against his nose, and was gone.

Viy tugged Yaga outside to where the pestle and mortar nudged against her legs and keened for her love. She kicked it hard and the wretched thing whimpered and drew ever closer.

See how it loves you, Viy said, and gripped her harder. Just as much as I do.

Yes, Yaga thought. And it could grind me into a powder, just as you could.

Blindly, she turned her face into Viy’s kiss.

*

Koschei did not return.

Outside, the tree that he had touched turned silver and withered.

*

She woke up when the pain sliced into her, crooked and deep as a claw in her belly, pulling out her vitals to spill across the bed. She wrenched herself out of the bedlinen, throwing back the blankets and the furs to fall on her knees on the cold stone floor and empty out her stomach with long retches of thin bile.

Viy, who was sat by the window to watch the snow fall, turned to look at her.

He has done it, then, Yaga said, when she could draw breath enough to speak. She looked at the mess on the floor and the thin rivulets of blood streaking through it. The blood streaked around the image of an egg, hard and black, with white studded diamonds piercing its shell in mindless rage. He has cut you out, like a tumour. She wrenched herself to her feet and went to fetch a pail of water and a dishrag to clean up.

At her back, Viy sat unmoving. Yes, he said at last when she had finished and the floor was cold and clean again. Yes, I suppose so.

Yaga looked at him one more time before setting the pail down, the dirty water slopping over to one side. You know I must go, she said. I must find him, that stupid wretched boy, and fix what he has done. He will do himself an injury without me to look after him.

She fetched more water and washed her face and hands, then – hesitating – she took down her cooking apron and tied it around her waist. Outside, the mortar was waiting to be ridden and the pestle to be mounted, and her stupid blessed brother to be found.

Still sat by the window, Viy watched her go. Yes, he said again into the silence, his hands clenched. Yes, I suppose so.

*

fin

 

> _It is not true_  
>  _that death begins after life._  
>  _When life stops_  
>  _death also stops._
> 
>   
> _Death’s Secret,_ by Gösta Ågren

**Author's Note:**

> Quick Russian lexicon:
> 
> milochka (милочка) = darling  
> dorogaya (дорогая) = sweetheart  
> volchitsa (Волчица) = she-wolf  
> chyerti (черти) = devils  
> blini (блины) = stuffed pancakes


End file.
